


Les Fleurs Du Mal

by Beguile



Series: The Language of Flowers [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: Flowers, Fluff, Gen, Language of Flowers, Phone Calls & Telephones, mild crack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-17
Updated: 2013-12-17
Packaged: 2018-01-04 21:53:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1086101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Beguile/pseuds/Beguile
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Let us beware of common folk, common sense, sentiment, inspiration, and the obvious.”  ~Charles Baudelaire</p><p>Or:  Chilton engages in a battle of wits with a floriographer and gets stuck with the bill.  Post-Finale.  One-Shot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Les Fleurs Du Mal

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: The characters and concepts in this story are the property of Thomas Harris, Bryan Fuller, and their related affiliates. This is an amateur writing effort meant for entertainment purposes only. 
> 
> This is a follow-up to an earlier one-shot, L’Enfer, C’est Les Autres. It’s not necessary to read that first, but it does explain the connection between Will and the floriographer. 
> 
> The title comes from Charles Baudelaire's poem Les Fleurs Du Mal: "The Flowers of Evil". I do hope you enjoy!

 

         “Full Bloom Floral.  Charlotte speaking, how may I help you?”

          Dr. Chilton ceases to tap the small card in his hand against his desk and says, “Yes, Charlotte, may I speak to your manager, please.”

          “They are out.”

          “When might they be back?”

          “Five weeks from now,” Charlotte sighs wistfully.  “They’re vacationing in Palm Springs.”

          “Of course they’re away.”  No self-respecting business owner would allow this kind of behaviour to go unchecked.  Chilton sets the card face-up on the desk.  “Is there an assistant manager or supervisor I could speak to?”

          Charlotte’s voice develops an aggressive edge.  Someone as impertinent as she has been asked this question before no doubt.  “Is this a complaint?”

          “This is a concern,” he replies politely.

          “About what?”  
  
          Chilton smiles, leaning back in his chair.  “I think it prudent to only divulge that information to your supervisor.”

          “My supervisor’s an aggressively apathetic hipster two years my junior.  He’s currently shopping for bands you’ve never heard of online and will hang up on you if interrupted.  I, on the other hand, will listen intently and address whatever you might be concerned about,” her smile is audible.  “So what’s your concern?”

          He pauses, at a momentary loss for words.  The girl’s attitude oscillates so rapidly between antagonism and friendliness that there’s no telling exactly how she will respond.  Still, waiting five weeks to speak to a manager or getting hung up on are unappealing options.  Chilton stares at the bright pink card on his desk and knows that he must try with this young woman.  It will make her dismissal easier to secure in five weeks time when the owners return.  
   
          “Very well,” he agrees.  “Charlotte, my name is Dr. Frederick Chilton.  I’m the director of the Baltimore Psychiatric Hospital.”

          “Oh, that is concerning.  You’re thinking of a career change, aren’t you?”

          “My concern is not my job, Charlotte,” Chilton can’t believe she would feign airheadedness in the name of a cheap joke, but there is no way she is doing anything but joking right now.  Really, the nerve of this girl!  “It’s the favours that I have been receiving on behalf of a patient.  Since his incarceration, your business has been delivering an elaborate bouquet every four or five days to one Mr. William Graham.”

          Charlotte’s whole vocal demeanour changes with excitement: “Yes!  Is Mr. Graham enjoying the flowers?”  
  
          “He hasn’t been receiving them,” Chilton replies sternly.   
  
          Again, her tone changes, and this time she is not pleased.  “Why not?”

          “Charlotte, do you know who Mr. Graham is?”  Chilton doesn’t wait for her to answer.  “He’s an intelligent psychopath.  He’s murdered five people.  He is not the sort of person anyone should pursue as a lonely heart.  I wanted to express concern to your supervisor to discourage whoever has been sending these flowers to cease and desist.”

          “Oh, you don’t need to bother him with this.  I’ve been sending the flowers.”

          Chilton narrows his eyes, searching her words for any trace of guile.  There isn’t one.  “You’ve been sending the flowers.”

          “Yes,” confidence and bravado overtake the sullen lilt to her speech, “It’s part of a new initiative here at Full Bloom Floral: Flowers for Psychos.  We choose a psychopath from a nearby state’s psychiatric facility and deliver bouquets to them.”

          “You can’t be serious.”

          “We in the floral industry have been committed to brightening the days of everyone.  It’s high time we focused on the psychiatrically disenfranchised.”

          “You _can’t_ be serious,” Chilton insists.

          Charlotte insists right back at him.  “I am a trained floriographer, sir.  I assure you: I am never not-serious.”  
  
          He keeps his scoff as inaudible as possible, no matter how preposterous the idea.  Clearly, she’s not willing to relent even if this is some horrible joke.  Instead, Chilton begins to politely accost her, “And you chose Mr. Graham: a man charged with five counts of murder?”

          “We held a poll here at the store. Will Graham won by a narrow margin against another Baltimore inmate.  You wouldn’t think a serial killer would have difficulty winning anything against a serial rapist when it comes to free flowers, but my supervisor was reading Randy Thornhill when we were voting.”

          Chilton jots the name Randy Thornhill down on a nearby post-it to save for research later.  “Psychiatric health is not a game, Charlotte,” he drops his pen and picks the small card off his desk again for strength, “I run a serious institution, and I will not tolerate being bombarded by flowers.”

          “You wouldn’t be bombarded with flowers if you forwarded them to the proper recipient,” she states. 

          “They are a distraction for my patient.”

          “How do you know that?  He hasn’t received them yet.”  
          “And he won’t ever be receiving them,” Chilton’s chest swells with the pleasure of denying her will interminably.  “Will Graham is a seriously disturbed individual.  He requires constant care and support, not superficial tokens of appreciation.”

          “They’re totally legit arrangements, sir.”

          “Legit _imate_ ,” Chilton winces, “as they may be-”

          Charlotte continues speaking over him, “I mean, yeah, the red tulips in retrospect were a little schmaltzy.  Okay, a lot schmaltzy.  They were just so in season!  I can totally see where you might get the idea I’m a lonely heart from those though...”

          Chilton tries to overpower her with his own explanation - “They are a waste of perfectly good flowers” – but Charlotte is too caught up in her diatribe or just doesn’t care about what he has to say.  She continues unabated.

          “...but the balm?  The peonies?  The Lily of the Valley?  The _irises_?” the last name especially receives so much emphasis that Chilton feels immediately implicated.  He’s failed to understand the importance of the bouquets, to grasp the rich semiology of her floral arrays.  He is the disappointment here, he is the disgrace, and Charlotte is never going to let him forget it.  “Even a philistine could see the meaning behind those arrangements.”

          The best defence is a good offence: Chilton plasters a smile back on his face and chides her, “You’re trying to communicate Will Graham.”

          Her petulance is delicious, “I’m _failing_ to communicate with Will Graham.”  

          Chilton beams, twirling the card between his fingers, “And just what are you trying to communicate exactly?”

          The phone goes silent.  Chilton’s palms suddenly break out into a cold sweat.  He can feel Charlotte’s brow cocking in utter amazement.  She is stunned by his ignorance.  Nay: she is judging him for his ignorance.  Harshly.  Charlotte is mortified on his behalf.  “Among other things, that he is not alone?”

          The duh is, fortunately or unfortunately, implied.

          Chilton’s face sets itself into stone.  He sets the card gently on the surface of his desk and smoothes a hand over it.  How wrong she is: Will Graham is very much alone.  If it is the last thing he does, Chilton intends to prove that much.  “My patient will not be receiving the flowers,” he tries to crush the gentle curls of the writing under his fingers, “Ever.  Please cease and desist.”

          Charlotte is still speaking as he hangs up. 

          He tears the card down the centre and tosses the pieces across the top of his desk.  Really, the story is quite amusing.  An adolescent florist sending floral pick-me-ups to Will Graham: Chilton is positively tickled pink.  He casts an amused glance back at the elaborate bouquet on the corner of his desk, the newest arrival from Full Bloom Floral.  Charlotte crafted an exquisite bundle of purples, pinks, and greenery today, the likes of which Chilton has never seen.

          His smile fades suddenly.  Amusement pours out of him and is replaced with embarrassment, alarm.  Charlotte’s voice is ringing in his head: even a philistine could see the meaning behind these arrangements, and aside for their beauty, Chilton can’t fathom their depth.  His bottom lip quivers; his ears burn.  Shame blossoms into a deep-seated burn within his soul, plaguing him with reminders of his own inadequacy.  He can’t win against Will Graham, and this florist is berating him with her arrangements as punishment.  The bouquet really signifies how futile his efforts are at everything. 

          The phone snaps him out of his reverie.  Chilton snatches up the receiver desperately, aching to be saved from self-pity.  “Dr. Frederick-”

          “First of all,” Charlotte cuts him off, “I will not be ceasing and desisting.  The next bouquet will arrive on Thursday, the one after that on Monday.  So on and so forth until Mr. Graham dies or is released.  Second of all...”

          “I’m hanging up on you,” he says illogically. 

          “I’m disappointed in you, Dr. Chilton.  As the director of a psychiatric hospital-”

          “-this really is uncalled for-”

          “-you really should avoid exerting a negative influence on your patients-”

          “-I’ll be calling the owners of the store and having you fired, Charlotte-”

          “-ESPECIALLY since Abel Gideon-”

          Chilton’s blood boils, “You have no right to bring him into this.  Those charges were dropped!  That case was ludicrous!”

          “Says the man withholding flowers from a mental patient because he thinks they’re a distraction.”

          There’s a game, set, match quality to her tone that makes Chilton want to throw the phone against the wall.  “This conversation is over.  You will cease and desist, or I will contact the FBI and have you charged with harassment.  And conspiracy.”

          “The FBI handles criminal investigations at a federal level,” her eye roll screams at him over the line.  “ _Geez_.  If you are going to threaten me, at least have the decency to make it realistic.”  
  
          Chilton slams the phone down on the receiver.  Again.  And again.  And again.  And because that’s not enough - her condescending presence can still be felt in the office - he throws the phone off the desk completely.  For a brief moment, he is filled with a great sense of personal victory, but then reality crashes down upon him.  He hasn’t even won their battle of words; he had to surrender to her by ending the call.  Worse, four days from now, another bouquet is going to arrive at the hospital, yet another reminder that he is losing a war with an insouciant florist and her endless supply of meaningful greenery.

          He is about to set fire to the bouquet when a voice startles him from his thoughts.  “I’m terribly sorry, Frederick,” Chilton jumps out of his seat.  Hannibal Lecter is standing at the door.  “Am I interrupting?”

          “Oh, no, Dr. Lecter,” he leaps to his feet and sets about correcting the phone on his desk, gesturing for the other doctor to enter as he does so.  “Just a disagreement with a colleague.”

          Lecter crosses the room slowly.  “Must have been quite the disagreement for you to threaten calling the FBI.”

          “Nothing to be concerned about,” Chilton sweeps a hand towards the bouquet on the desk.  “A floral shop in Washington insists on bombarding me with favours for Will Graham.  Ridiculous business, really: the young woman I spoke to had quite the nerve, insisting they were tokens of good will.”

          The silence of the room strikes Chilton to the core.  He feels more alone in the office than he ever has before.  Lecter’s attention is focused entirely on the flowers.  He is transfixed: mind, body, and soul consumed by the elegant display of horticulture spilling out from the corner of Chilton’s desk. 

          “I’ll be calling back to have her dismissed in a few weeks,” his voice falls on deaf ears.  Hannibal is running his fingers over the petals of a very large blossom.  Chilton continues to speak just to fill the void, “Until then, I suppose I will have to endure this endless barrage.”

          Lecter returns to the room again in a blast of cool air.  Chilton shivers despite himself.  “How many bouquets has Will Graham received?”

          “None of them.  They’ve been confiscated.”

          “How many have arrived?”  
  
          “This is the fifth.”

          “And all of them like this?”

          “Different each time.”  Lecter’s on to something.  His mind is tinkering with thoughts beyond the scope of the human imagination, and Chilton’s heart hammers in his chest with _want_.  “Why?  What is it?”

          “Nothing,” Lecter lets his hand fall from the flowers.  “Though I would advise against having the florist dismissed from her workplace.  And from withholding these flowers from Will Graham.”

          “Why do you say that?”  
  
          Lecter touches to a tuft of purple blossoms dangling from the arrangement like chandeliers.  “Wisteria,” he identifies, moving on to the other specimens in the arrangement, “Bleeding hearts.  Lovage.  This bouquet is meant to communicate hope, healing, love, and fidelity.”

          Chilton’s face burns.  “Well, yes, I understood that...”

          He’s ignored again but not completely.  Lecter’s listening just enough to savour his embarrassment.  “The florist who constructed this bouquet is developing an understanding of their craft.  It would be rude to withhold this arrangement from its intended recipient or anyone else for that matter.”

          “What use could it possibly serve to Will Graham?”

          “Will Graham is looking for hope,” Lecter inhales the wisteria.  “It would be cruel not to give it to him.”

          Chilton cools immediately, “I suppose you’re right.  I don’t know what I was thinking.  It’s not as if-” he laughs, “-as if Will Graham will glean anything from a bundle of flowers.”  
  
          Lecter holds a bleeding heart tenderly in his hand, “Even a philistine could see the meaning behind this arrangement, Frederick.”  
  
          He immediately stops laughing.  “Yes, of course.”

          “These should be watered before you bring them down to Will Graham’s cell block.”

          “Have the secretary water them on your way down,” Chilton replies. 

          “I think it would be best if you brought them to Will Graham yourself,” Lecter takes a step back from the desk.  “He needs to trust you as a physician in order for you to facilitate his recovery.  Hope is the best thing for him.”

          With that, Hannibal sweeps out of the office, “Good day, Frederick.”

          “Hannibal,” Chilton nods sadly. 

          The office eats away at him in Hannibal’s absence.  Even a philistine...Chilton scoffs.  He is the director of a psychiatric hospital.  Bless Hannibal for his passions and young women from their interests, but he has work to do and psychologies to unravel. 

          The phone’s shrilly chirp rouses Chilton from his long stare at the bouquet.  He snatches the phone from the receiver without looking at the call display.  “This is Dr. Fred-”

          “And furthermore,” Charlotte snaps, “I’m billing your office for the flowers!”

          Chilton’s mouth is open, but his voice doesn’t emerge until after she’s slammed the phone down.  He tries her number again and goes straight to voice mail. 

          The card, already torn, ends up in tatters.  

* * *

Happy reading!


End file.
